It's Andrew Knowlton's trip of a lifetime: Cycling 295 miles through northern Spain—with mind-blowing meals at every turn

It sounds like the name of the wicked stepmother in a Disney film. Or a barren planet where Darth Vader light-sabered Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Urkiola, Urkiola, Urkiola—the word was charged with negative connotations. Mostly because at this moment it was killing me.

Urkiola is a mountain range in the western Basque Country of Spain, a 40-minute drive from Bilbao. When seen from a car, its highest peak, Anboto—4,367 feet to the summit—is a limestone beauty ideal for a leisurely picnic. But when you’re seeing it from the seat of a bicycle after a long week of riding, it’s terrifying.

And to think I’d planned this.

I’m a professional (over-)eater, which means I’m never hungry. This is a particular problem when I travel abroad. Three days into a trip, away from my normal routine, eating out for every meal—I’m stuffed. And then one day I wondered, What if I exercised before and after almost every meal?

So that was the goal of this week-long Tour de Basque: cycle a whole bunch so I could eat a whole bunch. I’d chosen the Basque Country for selfish reasons. Located along the Bay of Biscay in Northern Spain and a sliver of France, the region is known for its fierce independence as well as its outstanding cuisine. San Sebastián alone boasts an obscene number of Michelin stars (14) for a city of less than 200,000—not to mention its always-packed pintxos (tapas) bars. And that’s just one town. With great tables spread throughout the rugged countryside and coast, you’re never far from a life-changing meal.

The only question was: Would I live to taste my final reward?

Grant Harder

STAGE 1 / 56 MILES / 4 HR 40 MIN / 5,000 CALORIES BURNED

Any notion that this trip would consist of those breezy rides you see pictured in brochures was crushed 15 minutes into our first day. My group had left San Sebastián, our launching pad for the next three days, and we were now climbing Jaizkibel, a mountain that often breaks professional riders during local races. I am not a professional. I’m a runner who spins once in a while and, in nice weather, rides my bike from my home in Brooklyn to my office in Times Square. I’m in decent shape for a 39-year-old guy, but I’m no Greg LeMond.

Halfway up the mountain, I tasted alcohol. I regretted the previous night’s 20-plus-course blowout at destination restaurant Mugaritz. And those late-night whiskeys were, in hindsight, truly an amateur move.

Tour de Basque: Recipes & Scenes

I was feeling the pain on every level when I saw a blue table ahead. We’d reached the top after an hour-long climb, and Cesar Estevez, who was driving our “team” car, had set up a snack. Suddenly I was starving. I gobbled Marcona almonds and fresh figs (nature’s PowerBar). Coca-Cola, much touted by pros for its restorative powers after a long ride, tasted better than it ever had.

I was still shaking from the 40-mile-an-hour descent when we arrived for lunch at Alameda, a Michelin-starred, family-run spot in the town of Hondarribia. But at least I was starving. We quickly changed out of our spandex in a supermarket parking lot (a scene that would play out daily over the tour). Soon we were feasting on hand-carved pieces of lush ibérico de bellota ham, creamy rice studded with tiny squid, and local cheeses spread on excellent house-made bread. But something didn’t feel right. There were six of us around the table, but only one bottle of wine—the easy-to-guzzle local white Txakoli. I was about to order another when I noticed our guide, Juan Carlos Nájera— a sturdy pro mountain biker turned tour leader for the Basque cycle-maker Orbea—wasn’t drinking. And then I remembered: We had to get back to San Sebastián. I ordered another bottle of water.

If dinner hadn’t been at the three-Michelin-starred Arzak, I probably would have gone to bed without even showering. But the father-daughter team of Juan Mari and Elena Arzak are royalty in these parts, and you don’t stand up royalty. In the 1970s, Juan Mari helped define the New Basque cooking, a movement that paved the way for places like the legendary El Bulli. They are still pushing the envelope creatively while remaining true to the ingredients and flavors that define the region. Just as I cracked into the Monkfish Green Witch—a crisp green orb of rice—to reveal a perfectly cooked piece of monkfish, the energetic 71-year-old Juan Mari stopped by to inquire about our little adventure. He looked at the empty bottle of Arzak Gran Reserva 1968 wine. “What day are you on?” he asked. Day one, we answered. He shook his head and walked away. I think he was trying to tell us to go to bed.

PINTXOS POINTERS

A few tips to help you get the most out of your txikiteo—the Basque term for a tapas hop—in San Sebastián, one of the best spots for a crawl.

1. The Old Town (Parte Vieja) is the best area for first-time crawlers. A bit beyond is the Gros neighborhood, where several great pintxos bars now line Bermingham and Zabaleta streets.

2. Locals have a glass of wine and a few bites at one spot. Next stop is either a traditional restaurant or another bar. Keep moving!

3. Each bar will have a few things it does really well. Get what the regulars are eating.

4. Don’t overdo the cold pintxos on display.The raciones (slightly larger, often hot, dishes) listed on a chalkboard really showcase both what’s in season and what the bar does best.

6. The Basques want you to have a good time. Ask a native which bar you should hit next.

STAGE 2 / 50 MILES / 3 HR 30 MIN / 4,400 CALORIES BURNED

I’m not quite sure how I managed to get back on that bike. I did it for the food, I guess. My saddle was, uh, tender. My friend and fellow rider Alex Thoman gave me packets of chamois cream to help with friction and soreness. Along with Coke, it became part of my daily routine.

After a slice of tortilla española (imagine olive oil–poached potatoes and onions loosely bound with eggs) at the beachside Café de la Concha, we headed southwest, winding through Pagoeta Natural Park and down to the town of Tolosa.

Kevin Patricio, another friend on the trip, who cooked in New York before moving to his wife’s native San Sebastián, had told me about Casa Julián. He touted it as home to one of the world’s best steaks, and I trust him.

After changing clothes in a parking lot in full sight of a group of teenagers, we walked into what looked like the cluttered storage room of a restaurant. And then we stepped into the bare-bones dining room of my dreams. An ancient charcoal grill anchored one corner of the cavelike space, which contained only six worn tables. Bottles that looked older than America lined the smoke-stained walls. It was the truly one-of-a-kind place I live to discover.

We ordered the entire menu—six items, including sweet Little Gem lettuce hearts seasoned with salt and olive oil, blistered piquillo peppers, fat white asparagus, slices of spicy cured lomo, and, yes, just one bottle of wine to share. Instead I got drunk on the main attraction: two three-inch-thick chuletones de buey, bone-in rib steaks that had been blanketed in salt and then grilled perfectly by one of the owner’s sons. He sliced them and then put the bones back on the grill to caramelize. I gnawed one for a good 10 minutes, then sank into my chair. It was the best steak I’d ever eaten. I have no idea how I rode back to San Sebastián without tipping over.

STAGE 3 / 50 MILES / 3 HR 30 MIN / 4,300 CALORIES BURNED

Were the rides getting easier, or was I getting tougher? I should at this point give a shout-out to my trusty companion, an Orbea Orca bicycle that I was shocked to learn cost 9,300 euros (about $13,000). No wonder I was feeling okay: My bike was equipped with all the latest gadgets, including an electric gearshift.

But I was still doing the pedaling. And by the time we arrived at Elkano after an intense ride to the coastal town of Getaria, it was like I hadn’t eaten in days. Chefs and food writers had told me that Elkano is one of the world’s best fish restaurants. Its whole grilled turbot was mentioned as one of the great dishes on the planet.

The parade of expertly cooked seafood was from another world: squid with caramelized onions and a sauce made of its own ink, grilled lobster with its bright orange roe, kokotxas (a Basque specialty translated on the menu as “delicate pendulums of flesh growing in the throat of hake”) served three ways, and, dang, that turbot. It arrived dressed with nothing more than olive oil and salt. Aitor, the son of the chef, Pedro Arregui, deconstructed it with the skill of a surgeon into 20 or so sections (cheeks, loin, etc.), describing the flavor of each with a passion I hadn’t come across since my college English teacher recited from Hamlet. He told us to eat with our hands. Before long, I was licking the meat off the tiny bones, sweet and sticky with the fish’s natural gelatin. I was starting to wonder if all the cycling had somehow distorted my taste buds. Could it really be that I’d had two of the greatest meals of my life in less than 24 hours?

The climb back to San Sebastián, even in a torrential downpour, couldn’t dampen my spirit. I was ready to get back on my bike and see what else was in store.

STAGE 4 / 65 MILES / 4 HR 45 MIN / 5,500 CALORIES BURNED

You notice things while riding a bike that you miss while traveling in a car. There’s a deeper connection between you and the place. You’re at the whim of the weather, the cracks in the road, aware that at any moment you could tumble off the mountain and never be heard from again. That vulnerability opens up your senses. We were heading west along the coast to Mundaka, our longest ride of the trip. Finally, after three days and close to 200 miles of riding, I started to understand the appeal of this labor-intensive form of travel. I could see the faces of individual sheep and cows that wandered into our path. I stopped to marvel at hillside vineyards and take inventory of the little gardens that appeared to back every Basque home. I could smell licorice and lavender and salt in the air as we hugged the coast. I wasn’t high, I was just in a Zen state. Being on a bike for days can do that.

BA TRAVEL AGENCY: THE BASQUE COUNTRY

1. GET THERE: There are no direct flights to either San Sebastián or Bilbao, the two main entry points from the U.S. Iberia airlines runs several daily flights to both cities from Madrid.

After miles of exhilarating switchbacks between the towns of Zumaia and Lekeitio, we stopped for a roadside lunch overlooking an apple orchard. Cesar had set up a killer spread: bonito del norte tuna in olive oil (nothing else in a can should be called tuna), jamón ibérico, vinegary guindilla peppers, almond-y gâteau Basque, and, of course, Coca-Cola. We even shared a beer—poured into five little cups.

STAGE 5 / 44 MILES / 3 HR 30 MIN / 4,500 CALORIES BURNED

If Etxebarri was half as good as the tales I’d heard promised, it would be the highlight of the trip. But, once again, there were many miles between me and lunch. After passing a tenth-century hermitage dedicated to John the Baptist, we turned inland toward the tiny town of Axpe, better known as the place hungry pilgrims go to worship at the custom-made grill of chef Victor Arguinzoniz. He is obsessed with smoke and the subtle effects it can have on every food from butter to cheese, caviar to oysters, inspiring chefs worldwide.

Goose barnacles.

Our four-hour meal provoked amazement with each course: smoked tomato with white tuna, fresh salted anchovies on toasted bread, fat goose barnacles, scarlet prawns, and a beef chop from Galicia that rivaled Casa Julián. (Who knew that some of the world’s best steak hails from Basque Country?) The meal epitomized what Basque cooking is all about: simple respect for the ingredient. You hear that mantra all over the world these days, but here it actually means something.

I was so blissed out, I forgot that the next day was our last stage. We would climb Anboto, the highest peak in the Urkiola range. And Urkiola scared me.

FINAL STAGE / 30 MILES / 2 HR 20 MIN / 2,500 CALORIES BURNED

We were back in the saddle by daybreak, and too soon we were climbing. Was this Anboto? No, a baby hill compared to what was to come, Juan Carlos assured me. After a tour of the Orbea factory, we got back on our bikes for the last time. My anxiety was building as signs for Urkiola started to appear: “Warning: Steep Inclines Ahead.” And then, pop! My back tire was flat. Cesar pulled up and changed it in seconds. “You’re good to go,” he yelled. Easy for him to say—he was driving up the mountain.

“This is it,” said Juan Carlos with a smile. Another sign warned cars of the 12 to 15 percent inclines ahead. When they’re warning cars about an incline and you’re on a bike, it doesn’t bode well.

The road grew steeper until I felt as if I was riding up a wall. I shifted to find a lower gear. Nothing. My legs were throbbing. It was all I could do to put pedal over pedal. I thought about zigzagging up the hill like I did on my BMX bike when I was a kid, but there were too many cars. I would have been roadkill. Standing out of the saddle didn’t help either. This was like no spinning class I’d ever taken. It was just me, my bike, and the (seemingly vertical) road ahead.

“You know why we do this?” Juan Carlos asked. “So we can eat and drink lots.” He had slowed down to help me up the mountain. He continued talking to me, shouting encouragement. I kept my head down. I couldn’t stop. I’d come too far. And then, at the moment when I felt like I was going to fall off my bike, we turned a bend, and I saw the Sanctuary of the Saint Anthonys. The top. It was as close to a religious experience as I’d ever come. I’d made it. And now it was time to feast at the Hotel Santuario Urkiola.

Grant Harder

Juan Carlos ordered Txakoli and, in traditional Basque style, poured it from high above so that it foamed in our glasses. I ordered another round. And another. At last, after six days, we could let loose on a half-dozen bottles. We ate soupy beans studded with chorizo and blood sausage. We lingered for hours—there was nowhere else to be.

Grant Harder

We stumbled onto the picturesque town square, happy and, finally, tipsy. Our Tour de Basque was officially over. And Urkiola no longer filled me with dread. It left me hungry for more.

Take care with these little shrimp: Once they hit the oil, they’ll cook through quickly. (Credit: Christina Holmes)

Grant Harder

Gaztelugatxe dates from the tenth century and is home to the hermitage dedicated to John the Baptist.

Tireless tour leader Juan Carlos Nájera pauses for a portrait while climbing Urkiola (minutes before getting back on his bike and passing the author)